


Uphill Battles & Downwards Spirals

by The_Recreational_Psychopath



Category: Hetalia - Fandom
Genre: Anorexia, Bulimia, Eating Disorder, Human AU, M/M, Self Harm, this is entirely venty angst stuff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-04
Updated: 2016-03-04
Packaged: 2018-05-24 16:09:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,264
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6159181
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Recreational_Psychopath/pseuds/The_Recreational_Psychopath
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Arthur was settling in to a relaxing afternoon of doing nothing important, but unfortunately, Alfred's illness had other plans. </p>
<p>TRIGGER WARNING FOR DISORDERED EATING AND WARPED SELF PERCEPTION</p>
            </blockquote>





	Uphill Battles & Downwards Spirals

**Author's Note:**

> THIS FIC CONTAINS TRIGGERING CONTENT
> 
> Please take care of yourselves. If you suspect you or someone you know to have an eating disorder, I suggest you look at this website (http://www.anad.org) and try to seek help from a medical professional. 
> 
> I hope all you lovelies have a wonderful day !

  
My eyes glance lazily over the evening paper I hold in my left hand, scanning the crossword looking for the obvious answers first. In my right hand, I have a fresh cup of tea, and am overall quite pleased with my present situation. Except...  
" _Bullocks_."  
I mutter as I delicately place my teacup on the hand crocheted doilies. Despite what my (idiot) of a boyfriend says about it being housewify, it's a productive and worthwhile hobby, needlework. But the question of my masculinity aside, I don't have a pencil to do my crossword with. And I am ever so comfortable in my chair...  
"Alfred! Can you grab me a pencil please?"  
I wait a couple seconds. I know he was just in the next room over, and could obviously hear me.  
"Alfred! You dolt, answer me! I know you can hear me!"  
Still no reply. Heaving a (potentially a tad over dramatic) sigh, I raise myself from the chair and shuffle in slippered feet through the doorway to the kitchen where Alfred was last rummaging through the fridge. Muttering darkly about lazy Americans (and ignoring the fact that I myself was the one unwilling to get up) I grab a pencil from one of the drawers and was starting the return trip to my crossword when I noticed something amiss.

Sitting on the counter was a piece of ice-cream cake.  
The last piece, in fact, from Alfred's half birthday last week.  
Although I was originally opposed to the idea of a "half birthday party" (because honestly, who celebrates half birthdays?) but i was soon swayed as it was the first time I'd seen him truly excited about something since...  
Well.  
Too long a time to say the least.  
Anyways.  
The innocent cake was sitting on the counter, only just starting to melt, forming a brownish pool on the plate. It was half eaten, the other half left alone.  
Again, not particularly unusual in any other household. In any other household, it would be safe to say the person who the cake belonged to might have forgotten something and will have tottered off to get it , or that they suddenly remembered a pressing task.  
But our household had been a little... off lately

  
Hoping that my excellent intuition was, at least this once, wrong, I peered over into the sink, and a solid lead weight of dread settled into my stomach

_Oh, bloody hell._

Disappearing down the sink drain was a few serpentine trails of muddy coloured ice-cream. The reds, blues and whites that once decorated the festive cake now swirled together forming the swampish stream. There couldn't have been more than 2 mouthfuls in the sink, clearly spat out in haste.

God damn it Alfred!

Leaving all thoughts of my tea and crossword abandoned, I hurry to the upstairs bathroom, the only one in the house with a lock, for this particular reason.

Of course, as expected, when I reach the door, it is already locked tight. I can barely hear a choked sobbing echoing through the bathroom as the sink runs in an attempt to cover the noise.  
I hammer on the door with my fist  
"Alfred, darling please, open this door! Let me in! You don't need to do this, we made a promise, alright? No more secrets, no more hiding. So love, _please_ , _let me in"_  
I slam my forehead against the door with my fist just above my head. A harsh whisper escapes my lips as I try my best to hold back tears, for his sake.  
"Alfred love, _please_... I love you... Let me help you..."

The door unlocks with a hesitant click. I throw it open before the lock can close me out again. Standing before me, is my perfect boyfriend, my absolute angel. His dirty blonde hair is mussed from distressed hands pulling it from his skull, his clear, sky blue eyes puffy and red from hot, desperate tears. His tanned, muscular arms wrap around his sculpted torso and his fingernails dig into non-existent fat he believes he has.

I step up to him tentatively and wrap my arms around him. Like a small child, he burrows his head into my shoulder and clutches and the front of my shirt

We stand for several silent minutes, me rubbing small circles on his back to calm him down as he shakes with muted crying.

I try to take in the surroundings and assess the damage done. In the toilet, floating innocently like clouds float on air is the same kaleidoscope of sugar sweet confection I had seen in the sink downstairs. But this had and extra, special ingredient. 

American stomach acid.

Once Alfred had started to calm down, the sobs giving way to shaky breathing and eventually a monotone, even demeanor

I gently step back away from him, keeping my hands lightly resting on his shoulders. His head hangs listlessly, avoiding my looking at my eyes. I give him a once over, hoping that he hasn't done anything too drastic this time round. Along his stomach long, angry, red streaks reach across his anatomy. Only one or two had actually drawn blood, but they crisscrossed his abdomen like the cross hatching on a plaid shirt. I tried to keep my eyes firm as I cup his chin and bring his gaze up to meet mine. Seeing guilt and panic in his watery eyes, my voice catches as I speak.

"Alfred, why?"  
His eyes threaten to spill over as he casts them downwards, trying to shy away from my confrontation.  
"You were doing so well love, and now.." I gesture around me.  
"I believe in you. I KNOW you're stronger than this."  
He shakes his head he stares at the tiles beneath his feet, mumbling.  
"'M not. I can't. I can't do this, Artie."  
I put my hand under his chin once again and pull his gaze to meet mine.  
"You can. You're so close. You were doing so well until today."  
He hits my hand away roughly, turning his back to me.  
"You don't understand. You can't understand."  
Seeing him giving up so easily, throwing away everything we had worked for, I felt irrational anger boiling up inside me. He's not even trying anymore!  
"For gods sake, Alfred, I'm trying! At least you could _try_ talking to me, let me know when you're about to have a bloody episode so I can at least know what's going on! _I just want to know whats happening_! "

Immediately, I regret snapping. But before I can apologize, he whirls around to face me, a new fiery emotion in his eyes. His whole body tenses as he screams at me in a hoarse, broken voice.  
" You wanna _fucking_ know what's going on! I'll tell you what's going the fuck on! I'm 12 _FUCKING_ pounds up!" His voice broke and as he spoke he sank to the floor, tears flowing down his face anew

"I'm twelve massive pounds up. I'm turning into a lazy fat fucking whale Artie, and I can't take it anymore. This is supposed to be "recovery" or whatever but I've never felt worse in my life. Look at me! I'm fat, I'm stupid, annoying, immature, obnoxious, USELESS..."  
I sank down next to him and took his shaking hands lightly in mine as he continued to mutter, waiting for him to calm down.  
"Love, shh. Shhhh. It's ok, it's ok! Breathe."  
He started to gulp down air, more rapidly as his anxiety and negative thoughts snowballed quickly into a panic attack.  
"Water. Artie, water."  
I reached behind me and grabbed the bottle of water that was already sifting there, a remnant of the earlier purge. He took it from me and rapidly began to gulp it down. Realizing too late my mistake, I exclaim helplessly as he leaned his taut face over the toilet once again, sticking his trembling fingers aggressively down his enflamed esophagus, bringing up bile and a few lone splashes of colour. When his heaving stopped, he reached up with his head still hanging limply into the porcelain bowl, flushing away his guilt. I scooted next to him, pressing our bodies together, and rubbed his back and he frantically muttered  
"I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I needed it out I could feel it, I'm sorry..."  
All I could do was wait and make comforting sounds. I've tried everything in the past, but the only thing that would ever end well is just waiting out the storm until he could listen to reason, even if he never believed it. Eventually, he raised his head up and stared hopelessly at me, his empty yet frantic eyes searching for forgiveness in mine.

I pull him into a hug as he curled his hands into the back of my shirt, I started to whisper consoling words into his thinned hair.  
"Love, you have nothing to be sorry for. Don't apologize. Listen to me, ok? You are perfect. Those twelve pounds look so good on you I never want you to take them off ever again, alright?"  
He was shaking his head against my shoulder  
" No, no I need them gone, I need CONTROL..."  
"Shhh, listen. You're not in control, not when you're like this. This is hurting you, see? You're your own worst enemy, the hero I know you are is fighting these false ideals you have."  
He's pulls back to look at me, face to face. I watch his face contort with grief as he tries to reply, but I continue without letting him contradict me  
"Alfred, you are the strongest, funniest, cleverest, sexiest person I know. You are the most heroic, the most inspiring, most _incredible_ man to ever walk this earth, and no number on a scale is ever going to change that. I don't care how many times I have to tell you-"I smile weakly as I poke his forehead "- no matter how long it takes to get through your thick skull- I will keep telling you the truth until you believe it yourself. I will stand right here next to you, waiting until the day when finally, what you see in the mirror matches what is actually reflected. "  
He is still shaking his head, denying the things that I say  
"No, no, you're wrong. I'm pathetic-"  
"Uh-uh, no, you're not. You're incredible. I know we can make it through this. Alfie, love, just for me, can you smile?"  
I give him a michevious smile.  
"I'll get a smile one way or another.."  
I reach out and start to tickle his exposed stomach, and he buckles, shying away from my touch, but eventually his enchanting, dorky laugh bursts forth through his lips.  
"Hey, no fair!"  
A weak, watery smile is balanced in his lips. But it is a smile none the less.   
"Ah, there we go. That's better. Now, lets go get out of this cramped bathroom."  
I stand, and offer him my hand. He cautiously placed his hand in mine and I pull him to his feet, before kissing his hand. He snickers.   
"You're such an old man."  
"And you're a young whippersnapper. Let's go, handsome."  
He hesitates, still holding my hand with his eyes downcast  
"Hey Arthur? Thanks."  
I retreat the one step back to my perfect boyfriend, and give him a soft, gentle kiss before responding  
"Anything for you, Alfred. I love you."  
"I love you too"  
  
He clutches my hand tightly as I lead him to our bedroom. I helped him change into pajamas before tucking him to bed. His tall frame was curled so small that he reminded me of a child, his knees hugged against his chest. I kissed his cheek.  
"Love, I'll be back in a tic, I'm just going to grab my book, alright?"  
He nods in reply.  
I leave and stride purposefully downstairs to where my book was left sitting next to my now stone cold tea and unstarted crossword.  
I knew that tomorrow neither of us could go to work. Nor the day after. But on the third day, he'd be like this never happened. He'd be back to bouncing around grinning and proclaiming his heroics. We'd tell all the other representatives that I'd caught a cold, and that he had nursed me back. Because no one could know about these manic depressed phases, no one could know his weakness. So in three days, our lives will be back to normal.  
We should have gotten help long ago. I know this because these relapses are almost predictable, something that I'm used to. It happened at 1 pound, then 4, then 7,10,11,12. And it hasn't been a straight rise. After a slip up its an everyday battle for the next week for me to convince him to simply eat. _Hell_ , I think, as I push open the door to our room, _this is hardly recovery at all._

I quietly slip into bed next to my lover, and he snuggles into my chest, clinging desparetly to me like I'm his last lifeline in a wild storm, which is to say, in a way, I am.  
I stroke his hair softly until his breathing calms, and he drifts off into what I hope, for his sake, is a dreamless sleep. I read my book late into the night, knowing that if I sleep and he wakes from a nightmare, he will be frantic with panic, and the oppressive force of depression will consume him. So I read and he sleeps, curled against my chest, and I await to battle that is sure to come tomorrow.

**Author's Note:**

> Yeah so basically I have no excuse for this it's mostly a vent piece (I sympathize with Alfred a lot haha).  
> I might write a more comprehensive lead up to how Alfred's illness progressed this far, but I'm not sure.  
> Please let me know what you thought !  
> Have a good day !!


End file.
